


Five times Ichabod lost his grip on reality, and one time he really didn’t.

by emef



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Abbie is going to kick Ichabod's ass, F/M, Ichabod in skinny jeans, Ichabod is badass, Ichabod learns how to text, could witches fake text messages?, creepy ancient mistletoe, hugging urges, milk homogenization is a modern phenomenon, mistletoe made them do it, senseless violence, spells, witches made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/pseuds/emef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod Crane doesn’t know who he is anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Ichabod lost his grip on reality, and one time he really didn’t.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acalmingcupoftea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acalmingcupoftea/gifts).



> Dear [acalmingcupoftea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acalmingcupoftea/),
> 
> I was dissatisfied with the story I wrote you for yuletide, so I wrote another one. Happy New Year!
> 
> xx -emef

**One**

“Oh hey. Crane. There you are,” she says.

Ichabod has been drinking enchanted tea, and its effect is to make all women look like his wife, Katrina. What is the point of this enchantment, and why is he its victim? He does not know that there is anything amiss with the tea. Its arrival on Ichabod's breakfast table may be due to the the forces of evil, or it may only be the result of a magical process gone awry. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Ichabod believes he is seeing Katrina, and is so relieved, so overcome, that he does not notice that she just called him “Crane.”

“You hungry?” Abbie asks. “I was gonna… Why are you looking at me like that?”

Ichabod is speechless, and so weak with emotion, that he simply walks towards her, places his hands upon either side of her face, and gazes. His Katrina is here; the one who promised to be with him, carry his burdens with him, advise him in times of trial. Finally he can confide his worry and terror, finally he can be vulnerable, be it only for a moment. He looks into her eyes.

She blinks. “I…” she says, her voice dying in her throat.

Ichabod whispers, “speak not.” He puts his arms around her, and embraces her tightly. He feels her strength; clings to it.

“I…” she says again, and then huffs out a breath. A moment passes. He feels, then, her arms move. She is hugging him in return.

“It’s okay, Crane. I got you,” she says.

Warmth spreads through Ichabod’s chest; he feels her breath against his nape; his heart quickens. He moans into her neck, and kisses her. The kiss breaks the spell.

*

**Two**

Ichabod is trapped underneath a sprig of mistletoe.

Disrupting the sleep of New England’s forces of evil has unsettled other, older, wicked things. This mistletoe is an ancient varietal which traps all those who wander beneath it; only a kiss can release them. Though this trap is commemorated in the mistletoe tradition, no one living remembers its very real origin. Until now.

Now Ichabod has been trapped by a sprig of mistletoe.

Why is this happening? Why are these seemingly inconsequential, irritating things happening to him? Only a few weeks ago, he was bravely fighting a demonic spirit which, centuries before, tried to kill his wife and son. Now he is cowed by shrubbery.

Ichabod cannot believe that he has been trapped by a sprig of mistletoe.

The cold is seeping through his boots and he breathes in shallow gasps. This section of Sleepy Hollow forest is so very dark. Ichabod shivers. There is no wind, the only sound is the creaking of of the trees. And the sound of Abbie’s very loud huff of irritation.

He has been trapped, and she cannot believe this.

Abbie says nothing, and Ichabod knows that she is very vexed. But he is completely immobilized, in an invisible barrier of some kind, and cannot apologize. He cannot even move his hands, and his hair is in his face. Abbie has to brush it away from his eyes; her fingers are soft. She runs a finger over his lips.

“When we get out of here, Crane, I am going to kick your ass,” she says, and kisses him.

*

**Three**

It’s three in the morning when Abbie notices how often she hears from Ichabod.

It happens because something’s woken her, and before she does anything else - before she even looks around to find out what roused her - she checks for messages from him. There aren’t any, and she sits back, and sleepily scrolls through his messages. His hundreds and hundreds of messages. How has she never noticed how often she hears from him?

She can’t go back to sleep. It’s amazing, now that she’s thinking about it. They are together every day, but even when they aren’t in the same room, Ichabod communicates with her constantly. At first, he would leave handwritten notes where he knew she would find them. Then, she taught him to use the phone, and he left lengthy, formal messages on her voice mail. 

At first, they were always about work. “Lieutenant, please be advised that Adam Lindenbaum, director of Nassau county services, has called upon Captain Irving and asked for us by name. I await your instructions. Yours respectfully, Ichabod Crane.”

Then, after a while, his messages were sometimes about stuff like… “Lieutenant, forgive this perhaps inconsequential question, but it has come to my attention that the milk in my ice-box has been standing for 24 hours, and yet, no clusters of cream have risen to the top. Is this the product of an aberrant species of cow? Please advise. Yours respectfully, Ichabod Crane.”

And the messages became more and more frequent. Tired of receiving nonstop voice mails, Abbie decided to teach him how to text. But that’s when the messages became kind of…

“Lieutenant, despite your claim that there is no law requiring the presence of the Starbuck at every fork and junction, it would appear to be in attendance in all such positions. Have you considered the existence of a secret law? I await your riposte. Yours, Ichabod Crane.”

Abbie can just see him - his hair flowing gently over his shoulders, his hands weirdly agile given the 250 years of creepy undeath - typing “I await your riposte.” It’s like she gave him that phone, taught him how to use it, and now he’s like an eight-year-old with a new toy. She should probably feel exasperated, except that really, it’s kind of endearing.

And sometimes, he writes things like: “Lieutenant, given that handwriting and seals cannot be inspected through this communication device, how is authenticity verified? Is the truth of my authorship of this missive a matter of faith? Mightn’t a powerful evil corrupt such communications?”

But then follows it up with: “How do you know, Lieutenant, that I am real?”

*

**Four**

Ichabod sometimes feels a nearly overwhelming urge to hug Abbie.

He knows this is an acceptable form of interaction in this age, but he was not raised to require physical contact, so he does not understand why he would feel this way. It is unaccountable. Disconcerting. And fortunately, it is infrequent.

Today, however, Abbie appears in his abode and Ichabod feels such a powerful sense of relief and fondness at the sight of her, that he stands too quickly, and his chair topples backward. Abbie is startled, and takes a quick step back. Ichabod briefly cannot bear to look at her; he just stands with his back ramrod straight and his eyes fixed somewhere over Abbie’s head.

“Lieutenant.”

“Crane. Guess you didn’t hear me drive up.”

He offers her chocolate. When he passes her the mug, she is standing so close that her hair brushes against the sleeve of his coat. The Lieutenant has such a commanding presence. For just a moment, he wishes he could pull her to him, call her Abbie, ask her to tell him that everything is going to be well.

He does not know where these bewildering thoughts come from. Perhaps it is because of all the things he sees here, in this odd place that is his home, but also not his home. Perhaps personalities are contingent on natural life spans.

*

**Five**

Captain Irving makes Ichabod change his clothes.

Just for one day. It is for work that is “undercover,” but now that Ichabod has given it some thought, he is surprised to have been allowed to keep his garments for so long. In fact, he does not even know how it is that he has them at all. He was buried for 250 years! How it is that his coat, shirt, and breeches did not decompose and become part of the surrounding soil? Did Katrina, perhaps, bury him in enchanted clothing?

In any case, Abbie is now taking him to a centre of commerce. She has advocated the purchase of “jeans.” Captain Irving has given them currency.

Shortly thereafter, Ichabod is shocked by the speed of the transaction. He has new clothing, and the intervention of a seamstress was not even required! Within the hour, they have purchased these “jeans,” as well as a “t-shirt” and a strange, short, coat. Ichabod has chosen to wear them immediately. He finds he is rather pleased with these “jeans.” Cotton manufacturing was a new industry in his time, and he had never worn cotton cloth before.

“Thank you for your assistance, Lieutenant. This new apparel is a refreshing change.”

Abbie seems rather flustered. “Yeah - no problem.” She coughs. “Wanna stop at Starbucks before we head back?”

“Certainly, Lieutenant. It is my pleasure to escort you to the coffeehouse.” He holds out his arm.

When they reach the Starbucks, Ichabod sees their reflection in the window. He is wearing clothing Abbie picked out for him, and together, they blend in perfectly with the crowd. Ichabod looks quite at home in his surroundings.

He has a moment of utter confusion. That reflection is so at odds with his perception. He perceives himself as a stranger in a strange land. But is he, still?

*

**Six**

Abbie gets hurt.

She is walking ahead of Ichabod, on a crowded sidewalk, when a shot rings out. Ichabod sees her slow down, and he thinks she is going to turn, give him instructions, tell him what is going on. But she only sways gently. He steps in front of her, time seems to slow, and as though in a dream, Ichabod watches Abbie’s eyes open in shock; Abbie’s hand go to her shoulder.

He turns, runs towards the shooter. He takes out his dagger. Around him, citizens run the other way. 

Sights and sounds are magnified. His feet pound the pavement. The trees sway in the wind. The man who shot Abbie just stares. Ichabod runs straight at him. He is a foolish, ill-equipped amateur, and easily incapacitated. He barely protests as Ichabod tackles him to the ground. It was all just a senseless act.

Ichabod hasn’t felt so clear-headed in ages. Almost serene. He is a man of letters, but he was always very good in a fight.

Ichabod removes the shooter’s firearm, binds his hands, and fastens them to a park bench. He checks him for other weapons. Then he returns to Abbie’s side. Her skin is grey, her eyes unfocused, and she is simultaneously cold to the touch, and covered in sweat.

Ichabod feels suffocated. “Bloody Hell, Abbie.”

He wraps her in his coat, and telephones for emergency services, just like Abbie taught him. He feels utterly lucid. He knows right from wrong. He knows what is important, what isn’t. He knows _who_ is important, who isn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [enemyofperfect](http://archiveofourown.org/users/enemyofperfect) for everything.
> 
> In part four, I used the following paragraph from Philalethia’s Paler Than Grass as a template:
> 
> "Sherlock stands so quickly that his chair topples backward, and Joan is so startled she takes a quick step back. But he doesn’t so much as look at her, just stands with his back ramrod straight and his eyes fixed somewhere over Joan’s head, his chest heaving with each deep inhale.”
> 
> Part two is totally stolen from [this story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1093714).
> 
> Part six... honestly, I'm pretty sure “bloody hell” isn’t something Ichabod would say. But. Just. Argh. ~~Ideas for a more Ichabod-ey swear word? Anyone?~~ ETA you know what... I think I'm going to keep it there. As anachronisms go, "bloody hell" pleases me.  <3


End file.
